Complications
by the ticking clock
Summary: Hannibal is so close Will can smell the iron taint of dried blood and sweat clinging to the doctor's skin. "Remarkable boy," Hannibal says, the words a crooning whisper. "I do admire your courage."


**The dialogue that is purely in italics is a line from the Red Dragon novel. **

Will goes down in a spray of blood and bullets.

Even years later, he's never sure exactly how it happens. He's crouched in a dark alley, the cobblestones cool under his trembling hands, legs screaming, back aching in protest. The agents sweep the streets, guns out, shouting. Their voices are indistinct, the italian foreign and clipped in Will's ears.

A rush of footsteps behind him. Will scrambles to turn. Three agents go down with hoarse shouts as Hannibal sprints down the alley. The doctor strikes one in the windpipe with a quick jab, shoots the other in the head. The third fires in rapid succession, hands trembling, the bullets poorly aimed. Will covers his head with an arm, pressing his back to the alley's cool brick wall. He raises his own gun with the other hand.

"Hannibal!" The name is a hoarse cry, bitter in his mouth. How many times has he screamed that name in the night, waking from nightmares of Abigail's blood spilling across the floor and a knife in his gut.

Hannibal does not turn. He stalks towards the trembling agent, who is beginning to reach for his radio.

Will fires. The bullet narrowly misses the doctor's shoulder. Hannibal does not flinch. "That was foolish, Will," He says, the words half a whisper.

In a blur of movement the agent is charging Hannibal, gun raised, Hannibal is shouting, and the alley explodes with a cacophony of noise as guns are fired in all directions-

There is a searing, screaming pain in Will's shoulder and he stumbles backward, his head cracking against the cobblestones.

Dazed, Will watches the blood run down the alley like a river.

Hannibal finishes the agent with a savage twist of his arms. A sharp _crack _rings in Will's ears as the doctor snaps the man's neck.

His shoulder is wet with blood. The pain is a kind of numb ache now-adrenaline keeping his body tense and alert despite the bullet and the blood loss. He's had worse, but he's hit his head hard enough that standing is impossible. His vision blurs and blackens.

* * *

Will wakes in the front seat of a car.

Before he has enough breath in his lungs to scream, an arm braces across his chest. "You are safe now."

Hannibal is driving. He keeps his eyes on the road, one hand casually on the steering wheel, the other is gripping Will's good shoulder. His lip is dark with blood, and there is a shadow of a bruise along his left cheek.

It is dark enough that Will cannot make out the landscape outside. They are out of Florence and into the country-Hannibal's headlights the only source of light.

Impulsively he reaches up to feel his shoulder. It's been bandaged, presumably by Hannibal himself. His phone is gone, as is his gun. The familiar weight of both are absent from his hip. Tilting his head back against the seat he pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe normally.

"Are you taking me to a hospital?"

Will can't see the doctor's face, but he hears the faint smile in his voice. "Of course not. We're both wanted fugitives, thanks to you and Jack."

Will does not take the bait. "So, you expect me to, what? Run away with you?" Laughing hurts, but he forces out an exhausted huff of a laugh anyway. This situation is oddly surreal. It feels like a dream. Maybe he _is _dreaming.

"You will be safe with me."

"I don't need your protection."

Hannibal's eyes flick from the road and settle on him. Will swallows hard. Hannibal has always been able to see through his facades. The doctor's look is cool and dangerous. "Of course you do," he purrs.

Will does not have the strength to argue. His shoulder aches, he's tired, and the warmth of Hannibal's car is lulling him towards sleep again. He fights it, clenching his hands into fists and blinking back tears. He will not lie helplessly within Hannibal's grasp-not again.

"I have a house," Hannibal says into the silence. "We need to attend to your shoulder."

"And then what?" Will snaps.

Hannibal looks at him. "I am not going to kill you, Will."

Something like rage stings the back of Will's throat. Odd, he thought that he'd moved past these old wounds, but there is something about being with Hannibal, the odd familiar comfort of it in juxtaposed to the pulsing terror that still feels foreign is confusing.

"You tried," Will whispers.

Hannibal's eyes return to the road. "If I wanted to kill you, Will, you'd be dead."

The words are cool and certain. Will hears the truth in them, and cannot find the words to protest. "Why?" he finally whispers.

"You know why," Hannibal sighs. Turning his head, he looks at Will sidelong. "Go to sleep, Will."

It is a command, which makes Will want to force himself awake out of pure spite. But he _is _exhausted, and blood loss is not to be taken lightly.

Eventually, the steady thrum of the car and the relentless motion of the blackness outside moves him to sleep.

* * *

When Will wakes for a second time, he is lying in a motel room. The room is dingy and dark. A single lamp sways dizzingly above his head, casting odd shadows and reflections across the brilliant red carpet on the floor.

Will blinks, struggling to focus his vision.

Hannibal leans over him. His hands are surprisingly gentle, probing the bullet wound, steady. A doctor's fingers do not shake as he works; Hannibal is not exception. Killing also requires finesse, and Hannibal has always been careful.

"I thought-" Will hisses through gritted teeth, "that we were staying at a safe house. Not a hotel." He worries what Hannibal will do to the owner.

Hannibal smiles faintly, amused. "There were complications."

"Complications?" Will struggles to sit up. His shoulder screams a protest.

Hannibal pushes him down firmly with a hand. "I assure you, Will," he says, soothing, "we are safe here."

Will just looks at him.

Hannibal has cleaned up since the car. He's wearing a fresh white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is longer than Will remembers, falling in his eyes and across his forehead. His eyes are half closed in concentration, fingers pressed firmly against Will's hot shoulder, cool and still familiar.

"No," the doctor finally says, noticing Will's glance. He seems amused by it. "I haven't killed the owner of this place. She was polite."

Will grimaces. "Lucky for her."

Hannibal laughs, actually _laughs_. It's a low, raw sounds that seems torn from his chest. He shakes his head, slowly. "I've missed you."

Will looks away, remembering the sharp cold of the knife, Abigail's blood, warm against his hands, her choked gasps-

"I thought you were angry," Will finally whispers.

Hannibal finishes bandaging the wound and stands, taking his supplies and carefully arranging them in his medical bag (Will hadn't realized the doctor still had one). "I _was_ angry," Hannibal's voice is hard. "You were exceedingly rude."

"I lied to you, as you lied to me." Will says, leaning back against the pillows and closing his eyes.

"I did not lie to you," Hannibal hisses. Will's breath catches in his throat. There is a dangerous edge to the doctor's voice. "I never lied."

"You kept my medical condition from me," Will says, eyes still closed. The darkness of his own mind is comforting. He does not want to see Hannibal's expression. 'you made me think..."

"I wanted to help you reach your full potential."

"You wanted me to kill people."

A hand trails lightly over his wrist. Will's eyes fly open.

Hannibal is standing over him, eyes hooded and dark, but also strangely gentle. "And you have," the doctor whispers. "It felt good, didn't it?"

"Don't do this now," Will hisses, shaking his head. A pulse is pounding behind his eyes, sharp and distracting. "Don't."

Hannibal cocks his head, looking down at him. Will meets those dark eyes and whispers, "please."

The doctor sits down on the bed beside him. He fingers through Will's hair, catching in the tangles. Will closes his eyes at the touch. Hannibal's hands are familiar to him. With them comes memories of embraces, fingers trailing Will's forehead as Will seizes, a comforting touch on the shoulder, and lastly, those hands curling around the back of Will's neck to pull him forward to stab-

Will wants to scream, suddenly. He can feel one, perched under his chin, trapped in his chest like a songbird in a cage. Hannibal's fingers trail down the side of his face, cupping his chin. The doctor presses his forehead to Will's.

Will opens his eyes.

Hannibal is so close Will can smell the iron taint of dried blood and sweat clinging to the doctor's skin. _"Remarkable boy,"_ Hannibal says, the words a crooning whisper. _"I do admire your courage." _

Their gazes lock and hold. Will couldn't look away even if he wanted too. Hannibal's eyes are dark pools, and Will drowns in them.

Hannibal has always had this affect on him. He's always been able to crawl under Will's skin, latch his hooks into Will's mind and twine himself into his thoughts.

He's a snake, he's a virus, he's poison.

But _damn it _Will can't help but feel comfortable with him.

This man has murdered people. He eats the rude. He's dangerous and wild and unpredictable.

But so is Will Graham.

Hannibal pulls away after a moment. "Try and sleep, Will," he says, gently, and slips from the room.

Will does not ask where he is going, but the secretary of the motel is still alive in the morning. She helps them check out, hands flitting nervously on the leather handles of Hannibal's expensive bags. The doctor is polite, all smiles and gentle words.

Will sits in the front seat of the car and watches.

Hannibal joins him after a while.

They sit in a tense silence for awhile, until Hannibal finally says, "You missed that shot on purpose."

"What?" the headache has returned. Will rubs at his eyes.

"In the alley," Hannibal's voice is soft. "You missed on purpose."

"No I didn't," Will says automatically, the lie catches in his throat.

Hannibal knows. He smiles, faintly. "You don't want to kill me."

"How can I kill you?" Will says, bitterly. He's tried before; he might as well acknowledge the sheer impossibility of the fact. "I find you interesting."

Hannibal laughs. "I know. We are the same, Will." He looks to him. "you know that."

Will swallows hard. "I know," he whispers. He's never admitted that to himself before, never trusted himself enough to admit the possibility. Clenching his hands into fists, Will struggles to keep his hands from shaking. "I know," he says again, and thinks of two chairs across from each other in a room with red curtains. Of conversations chasing each other in circles, the delight in finding someone who _understands-_

Hannibal smiles a dangerous, knowing smile.


End file.
